Humorous Drabbles
by seeing-spots
Summary: Various little drabbles, none too serious, from the Silmarillion and Lord of the Rings.
1. Glorfindel: A Good Idea

DISCLAIMER: All characters and locations belong to the master, J.R.R. Tolkien. I am merely borrowing them.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: none of these snippets will be overly serious. Just some miscellaneous thoughts I had. The first one is inspired by a review exchange with Ithiliel Silverquill during her DRABBLES: THE SILMARILLION. She observed, "Leaping on a Balrog doesn't exactly demonstrate thinking through things ahead of time." I had to agree.

**A Good Idea** by Jessie Syring

Glorfindel stood patiently in the vast marble hall, waiting his turn. The hall seemed to echo with an unnatural silence in spite of the Elves filling it. Few spoke or made any sound, save perhaps a sound of surprise or a response to a question.

The golden-haired Elf lord shifted his weight slightly in an effort to get comfortable and wished there was a place to sit. He had been in battle for nearly two days and, to be honest, was quite tired. He wished consideration could be given to those warriors who waited. Still, everything had to have order.

"Glorfindel, lord of the House of the Golden Flower."

He straightened subconsciously as the deep, commanding voice spoke his name and title. He made his way to the forefront. Seated on a throne was an imposing, stern-faced figure dressed in robes the color of night. On his brow sat a simple silver coronet. Beside him sat a woman of great beauty. Glorfindel fell to one knee before them, head bowed.

"Glorfindel, lord of the House of the Golden Flower," announced that same voice from an unseen source to his left. "Born in the year 2866 of the Years of the Trees. Died during the Battle of Gondolin in the year 507 of the First Age."

"What is his history?" asked the lord on the throne, none less than Námo himself.

"Lord Glorfindel participated in the rebellion of the Noldor and in the Kinslaying at Alqualondë." Glorfindel winced at those words. "Furthermore, he followed the Noldor into exile following your Doom, during which time he became lord of his House," continued the unseen herald. "He served as a captain of the Army of Fingon, the High King, during the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, protecting the flanks and serving with valor. He died during the Fall of Gondolin, year 507 of the First Age---"

The herald broke off so suddenly Glorfindel felt a wave of fear go through him. He risked raising his eyes. Lord Námo looked off to one side, one eyebrow raised.

"Speak," he commanded.

"My lord..." stuttered the herald, "there seems to be a...an error---"

"SPEAK!"

The herald hastily cleared his throat. "He died during the Fall of Gondolin, year 507 of the First Age, when he threw himself onto a Balrog...so the refugees could escape over Cirith...Thoronath..."

The herald's words faded away weakly and absolute silence followed. Glorfindel bit his lip to keep from squirming under the intense gaze of the lord of Mandos. Not for the first time did he wonder the wisdom of his actions on that treacherous trail.

"You cast yourself upon a Balrog," repeated Námo, wonder in his voice. "Didst thou not understand the fate that awaited thee?"

"Yes, Lord Námo."

"Then why didst thou do this thing?"

Glorfindel couldn't stop an embarrassed smile. "Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time."

It sounded like a snort at first. Then it grew into a loud burst of laughter that surely echoed through all the vast halls. Glorfindel risked looking up and saw Námo bent nearly double with laughter. To his side, the lady Vairë was dabbing at her eyes with a delicately embroidered cloth. The Elves around him were soon caught up in the mirth. Finally Námo straightened and absolute silence reigned once more.

"I think you shall have your hands full, my dear," said Vairë, still laughing softly as she folded her cloth. "The Eldar have gone mad---throwing themselves into fountains and onto demons of Melkor."

THE END


	2. Gimli: Battle Mask

DISCLAIMER: I still don't own them. I only borrow them to torment either them or fanfiction readers.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: none of these snippets will be overly serious. Or long.

**Battle Mask** by Jessie Syring

A very tired Gimli sat the corpse of the last orc he had slain in the battle for Helm's Deep. He had not even pulled his axe from its thick skull yet, for such an action would take more energy than he had. He ignored the stench of blood and death all around him as his fingers dug in a pouch for his pipe and pipeweed. He puffed it with a contented sigh, not caring he had no fire to light the weed, and enjoyed the time to relax.

"So, Master Dwarf, I see you came through unharmed," said a musical voice.

Gimli looked up, scowling, though in truth he was glad to see the tall Elf standing before him. Legolas had somehow come through the battle without a single blond hair out of place that the Dwarf could see. The black blood of orcs stained his green clothing, but the Elf seemed unharmed. Only a dirty smudge marred his features.

Gimli grunted noncommittally. "We Dwarves are hardier than the stone of this mountain," he said, "and not so easily felled by the likes of orcs."

Legolas smiled slightly and turned to leave. He stopped suddenly and turned back. Gimli shifted uncomfortably under the intensity of his gaze.

"Where do you carry it, Master Dwarf?"

"Eh?"

"Your battle mask. We carried so little equipment with us from the Falls of Rauros." Legolas stepped closer. "I have heard legends of such things. Fierce masks to strike fear in the heart of your enemy."

Gimli rose, wondering if the Elf had taken a head injury. "You're daft. I own no such mask. We have not worn them since the battle called Nirnaeth Arnoediad."

Legolas shook his head. "Not true. I saw it, as you fought upon the walls! It was hideous!"

Gimli's expression went from confusion to anger. His balled fist crashed into Legolas' jaw and left him sprawled on the ground. Gimli towered over him, clutching his axe.

"That was my FACE!"

THE END


	3. Alas, Poor Celegorm

DISCLAIMER: All recognizable names belong to the master, J.R.R. Tolkien. I'm not sure he'd approve of this terrible limerick, though.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: A wise person once gave the advice to never pick on or criticize a bard or poet or one may find one's self at the wrong end of humorous jokes and songs. I prefer to think of the advice oft given to D&D players: don't mess with the dragon, for you are crunchy and taste good with ketchup.

**Alas, Poor Celegorm **by Jessie Syring

There once was an Elf lord named Celegorm

Who used words of hate and of scorn.

Alas, at his end,

He found he'd no friends

So no one his death did mourn.


End file.
